


October Snow

by Kasasagi



Category: Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Autumn, Developing Relationship, M/M, Marvel Universe Big Bang 2014, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2608142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasasagi/pseuds/Kasasagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki tries to be less selfish, and Steve more so. Like this, they might just meet halfway. Sequel to Cast Away (The Lingering Smell of Roses).</p>
            </blockquote>





	October Snow

**Author's Note:**

> This Marvel Big Bang story is a sequel to my last year Marvel Big Bang contribution, Cast Away (The Lingering Smell of Roses). I’m afraid it won’t make much sense without reading that first. It disregards the events of Thor: The Dark World and Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Later, this will be accompanied by artwork by karneol_vision. I’ll post the link here as soon as I get it.
> 
> Many thanks go to my beta, d_violetta, and also to everyone who commented on Cast Away, thus supporting me in my decision to write this sequel.

Steve can hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, and occasionally a chinking sound of a passing tram, but at this time of night there are not many of them. Other than that, the apartment is silent. Dark, too, except for the pool of weak yellow light spilling out through the crème colored lampshade of a brass floor lamp standing next to the old light green sofa Steve is sitting on with his sketchbook in his hands. It is very quiet, so he should be able to focus on finding a solution for this situation. But the only thing he is able to focus on is the ticking of the clock, regular, persistent and unforgiving. It reminds him of the little time left before this vacation is over and he must return to the States – less than two days from now.

His eyes wander to the half-open door to the next room. Loki is lying there on the bed in the position Steve left him; on his left side with his back turned to Steve and one arm thrown behind. Steve’s gaze travel from the matted black hair to the fragile arch of a pale wrist, and then he forces himself to look away again, trying to figure out his next course of action.

While before, when Loki thought he was Eric Lund, the danger he posed was minimal, now it is a completely different matter. A self-aware Loki is a threat. A self-aware, _unstable_ Loki is a time bomb that could go off at any moment. He should immediately inform director Fury and the Avengers. Find a way to contact Thor and ask him if he knew anything about this. Loki would be caught, imprisoned and most probably sent back to Asgard again, now that his punishment was over (if it was really punishment, and if it is really over).

His eyes drop to the open sketchbook in his hands. He finds that he absentmindedly drew the curve of Loki’s wrist. He closes the sketchbook and puts it away from him in almost violent motion. He rests his head in his hands and tries to think again.

A moment later, his phone starts to ring.  

“Rogers,” Fury’s voice greets him.

“Director,” Steve acknowledges the other man with a steady voice. But inside, panic is threatening to overwhelm him. _What if they have me under surveillance and know about Loki? What if they think I’m compromised?_ Steve hears his heart thudding in his ears and he is sure Fury must hear it as well.  

“There have been rumors of Hydra activity in Copenhagen. I need you there as soon as possible. Your plane leaves in ten hours; I’ll have the dossier with necessary materials sent to your hotel in forty five minutes.”

“Yes sir,” Steve says with an immense sense of relief. He cannot believe his luck. Fury continues:

“When it’s over, feel free to resume your vacation, take a few more weeks if you’d like. God knows you’ve got quite a lot of them piled up from the last seventy years.”

Steve expresses his thanks and Fury hangs up. This is better than anything Steve could have hoped for – it gives him the time he desperately needs, time to find some other way to deal with this situation that would not result in handing Loki back to Asgard, because for some reason the thought of it makes Steve’s throat feel painfully tight.  

Steve lowers himself down – he unconsciously drew himself up to attention while speaking, when his eyes take in the sight of the next room. The bed is empty. He abruptly stands again and looks around. He soon discovers Loki standing in the opposite corner of the room, with his back turned to him, and wonders how he could miss seeing him move. He self-consciously clears his throat.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks.

There is no answer.

“Loki?” he ventures, and feels as though he was trying to navigate his way across a minefield.

“I’m not Loki,” comes a dispassionate reply. Steve is not really surprised by this answer. Still, he wishes he knew how to play this game. He makes a couple of cautious steps towards Loki, who finally turns to face him. The lamp’s light doesn’t reach the other side of the room and Loki’s expression is almost impossible to read in the dark.

“I’m Eric Lund, born on January 12, 1982 in Slagelse, Denmark. I’m an assistant professor at Charles University, currently teaching courses in Danish literature and Norse mythology,” Loki recites in the same monotonous voice.    

“But-“ Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Loki coldly interrupts him:

“As we only met once before this occasion, and only very briefly, I find it inappropriate for you to be in my apartment at two o’clock in the morning. I’d like you to leave. _Now_.”

Steve’s mouth is still open, but no words are forthcoming. What he can see of Loki’s face looks like a mask, but he could hear a hint of something akin to desperation in the last word. That more than anything else convinces him to leave.

“Take care of yourself,” he says and walks past Loki, resisting the temptation to touch his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

It has been raining the whole day, the rain alternating between violent gushes threatening to break the window panes and weak drizzle that makes Loki sick. The apartment is drowning in gray dusk, and seems even more hostile than ever before.

Loki is sitting on the floor with his eyes closed, lost in his thoughts.

Steve Rogers has done the worst possible thing he could – he told Loki the truth about himself. Loki now knows that he is not Eric, but Eric’s grief is still crushing his bones. And whatever guilthe might have felt as Eric was nothing in comparison to _this_.

No one can bear so much guilt. Before, he felt wronged by the actions of those who claimed to be his father and brother. Now, he cannot understand why there were times when they forgave him, why would Thor refuse to give up on him. Life has not always been fair to him, that much is true, but the things he has done far outweigh whatever injustice he may have suffered. For the first time in what feels like forever, Loki sees himself clearly.  

And no matter how much Loki detests what he sees, he cannot resent Steve Rogers for that. Whatever else he might be, he was never one to shoot the messenger. He knows that the fault is his and his alone. What he feels is actually some sort of gratitude, even though he is sure that Rogers’ intention wasn’t to help him.

Having revealed the truth, Rogers surely gave him up to The Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D., or whatever they are calling themselves, and they are coming to capture him any moment now – while he is a sitting duck in this hellhole of an apartment, and he won’t be even able to put up a fight. But he still doesn’t make a single move to leave.

Because the guilt that is lying on him like a bag of stones, crippling and paralyzing, would not leave him. It would be for the best,to just let them do whatever they wanted with him, he thinks as he sits on the cold floor, leaning his head against the wall.

He was so blind in his desire to rule Asgard, Earth, anything really – that he did not see how tragically unsuited he was for the task, and how _undeserving._ Just what gave someone like him the right to decide the fate of a single individual, when he already destroyed the lives of thousands; who will ever know the grief of all those who mourned them?

The desire that had been consuming him for so long is gone now. He does not want to rule; he barely wants to keep on living. He wishes they would just come already and take all decisions out of his hands.

But no one comes.

His body is screaming for his attention, complaining that it is thirsty, hungry and tired. Before, when he was just Loki, he had physical needs as well, but they had never been this uncontrollable. He could easily will his body to stop feeling them so keenly with his magic. This is no longer possible. He realizes with horror that his mind now has little control over his body, and that he cannot reach his magic at all. Has he truly become human in all respects? His first reaction is revulsion – has he become one of those pathetic, repulsing, weak creatures?

And then he remembers Magdalena and lets out a shaky breath. There was nothing pathetic, repulsing or weak about her. No, it is _himself_ who embodies all these epithets, he thinks and hangs his head in bitter resignation. Even such an existence is more than he deserves. They should come and finish him off.

Another day slips by, with no one coming to bang at Loki’s door. The rain has been replaced by a cold, unforgiving light carving lines and angles around him, lines and angles so sharp that Loki feels that they might cut him.  

His body’s demands have been growing more and more persistent, until finally he caves in and slowly rises from his position on the floor, wincing in pain as blood starts to flow back into his limbs. He limps into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of tap water, gulping it down without paying any mind to the strong chlorine aftertaste.

Next to the kitchen sink, he finds a half-eaten packet of crackers and starts to chew on them mechanically, looking at nothing. He finishes the crackers and throws the wrapping to the bin. He walks to the bathroom, his movements stiff and jerky like those of a mechanical doll. He relieves himself. As he turns to the washbasin to wash his hands and face, he catches his reflection in the half-blind mirror and he winces. The man staring back at him with hollow eyes looks even worse than the one who stared back at him at the hospital, after he woke up from his coma.

No one is supposed to look like this. _No one alive_. He catches the edge of the washbasin to steady himself. His eyes seek the razor lying next to the soup bar. No one is coming for him, but maybe they don’t have to.

 

* * *

 

Steve waits at the Copenhagen airport for his flight. He sits in a comfortable lounge chair and tries to ignore the surrounding buzz so he can concentrate on the file in his hands. After the Hydra situation was more or less taken care of he asked Fury to find him as much information as he could on Eric Lund. He has done some research on his own before, but he felt it wasn’t enough. Fury might have thought that his request was related to the Hydra activity, or perhaps to someone in Steve’s past, but either way he didn’t say anything, and two days later Steve found himself with a dossier surprisingly thick for someone so young with no criminal record.

Whoever compiled this was incredibly thorough; it contains Eric Lund’s family and medical history, his school records. Summaries of all his academic works. Even hobbies and favorite foods. His personal life is described in such detail that Steve doesn’t even want to imagine how all this information was obtained.

When he reaches the part about his fiancée Magdalena’s death due to the Chitauri attack ( _and Loki’s_ , his mind whispers unhelpfully), the clinical way these events are dealt with does nothing to prevent Steve from being overwhelmed by his own memories and suddenly he can’t read anymore. For a while, he just breathes and wills his mind to empty.

It doesn’t really help, so he rises from the chair and starts walking around in search of some sort ofdistraction. He finds it in exploring the little airport shops, which he usually ignores. He browses through books and magazines, thinking that if some of the Viking ship models were real life size, they would most likely sink on the spot. Then something catches his attention, so he takes an item from a shelf and brings it to the cashier.

 

* * *

 

It takes more than twenty rings until the call is answered, but Anna Hoeg knows better than to give up. Lately, this has not been unusual occurrence. So she patiently waits, finding more comfortable position on her sofa and absent-mindedly watching the endeavors of the talent show participants on the screen in front of her, which in their soundlessness seem rather bizarre.  

The ringing finally stops. However, to say that the call is answered is a bit of an exaggeration, as there is no voice at the other end of the line.

“Eric?” Anna asks worriedly.

“ _Yes,_ ” comes a monosyllabic reply.

“You know you had classes today, right?” she asks lightly, carefully avoiding any trace of reproach in her voice.  

_“I was feeling…unwell. I apologize. I should've let you know.”_

“You _have_ been taking your medicine, haven’t you?” she asks, her worries increasing at the sound of his unusually hoarse voice.

_“My-yes, of course.”_

Anna inwardly sighs. This sounded far from convincing.

“If there’s anything I can do for you-“ she starts, but Eric doesn’t let her finish the sentence.

 _“Thank you for the offer,”_ he says courteously but dismissively. There’s a long silence at the other end of the line, and Anna feels like she’s losing her ability to reach him. She cannot let this happen.

“Actually, there is something _you_ could do for _me_ , if you’re willing,” Anna ventures.

_“What is that?”_

This bluntness, too, is rather unlike Eric, but Anna lets it slide.

“Remember how I always complained about our huge garden and the unreasonable number of apple trees in it? Well, the harvest time is coming. I was wondering if you could come with us and help with that. We were thinking about going at the end of this month.”

Another long pause. Anna feels like she is trying to entrap a rare wild animal.

 _“I'll be glad to go with you. Thank you for the invitation,”_ Eric finally says, and his voice sounds unexpectedly grateful – so grateful, in fact, that it makes Anna a little sad.

“How delightful of you,” she says out loud cheerfully. “The trees have truly outdone themselves this year. Niels says we might be in for an early snowfall.”

 

* * *

  
  
Loki’s fingers let go of the razor he has been holding. A few droplets of blood drip from where the blade has pierced the skin, but he doesn’t feel any pain. His resolve is gone. He is a coward, clinging to his good-for-nothing life, grasping at the first excuse that presented itself.

 _She cares about Eric, she would be sad._ Weak, but true; he will not disappoint her.

He looks at his hands, noticing the blood. He wipes it off with a tissue. _There’s a lot of work to be done_ , Loki thinks as his gaze travels from unwashed dishes to ever-present layers of dust and then to moth stains on the walls. This place desperately needs cleaning, and then there is shopping, paying the bills and other mundane duties. But once he takes care of the necessities, a far more formidable task awaits him – he will search for that he has lost, see if it can be regained. His knees suddenly feel wobbly, barely supporting his weight. All of this will have to wait, because now his fragile body demands sleep.

He sinks down on the creaky bed and closes his eyes. The last thing he sees before sleep claims him is the memory of strong, warm hands gently lowering him down.

 

* * *

 

When Steve comes back to Prague in the middle of October, everything is different. The warm, glittering charm of early autumn is over. The city is colder and more hostile, painted in demure colors, attacking Steve with sharp gusts of icy wind and easily getting underneath his inadequate clothing. When Steve crosses the bridge in late afternoon, the sky above him is overcast and gray and there are no cheerful balloons to liven it up.

The building of Faculty of Arts has profited from the change, though, as its drabness is no longer in a sharp contrast to the surrounding scenery. Now it forms a natural component in the view, a study in beige and gray.

When Steve enters the building, he doesn’t wander aimlessly like he did when he came here before. This time, he has a clearly set goal on his mind. He calls an elevator and pushes the button to the fourth floor.

The corridors on this floor are narrow and filled with a motley collection of furniture: black leather and red plush armchairs with worn down places, old school desks, heavy and ungainly cabinets. Steve reaches his destination and sits down on a bench upholstered with red artificial leather in front of the door number 408 and waits.

The waiting feels like hours and maybe it is, as the various doors in the corridor open twice to eject colorful throngs of students, who shuffle with newcomers in a brief interlude filled with lively voices, only to be all too quickly swallowed up again, and the place is washed down with silence, with the occasional muted voice or sound of coughing.  

None of the students pays Steve any heed. He is not as famous here as he is at home, which is a relief, frankly; he has never gotten really used to all the attention.

The quality of the light has changed too, diminished. He stands up to stretch his legs and takes a couple of steps to reach a narrow window, taking a look outside. The building consists of four wings arranged around an inner courtyard, paved with grey tiles. The few trees scattered among the tiles do little to liven up the picture, as they are already completely bare.    

“Your interest in Norse mythology is still so pronounced, Captain Rogers?” silky voice murmurs right next to his ear and Steve almost gives a startled jump, catching himself in the last moment.  

“It’s never been stronger,” he says, forcing his tone to remain steady and turning around slowly to face Loki. He takes in his appearance: Loki is obviously ready to leave the building, as he is wearing a black coat over a dark blue blazer and dark gray pants. His face is pale against the dark fabric of the collar, making the dark circles under his eyes stand out more clearly. He looks haunted.  

Whatever change Steve managed to trigger, it doesn’t seem to have done Loki much good. He can’t help but feel a little twinge of guilt. Maybe this shows on Steve’s face, or something else displeases the Asgardian, because he says:

“Well, as much as I’d like to indulge this interest of yours, I have some errands to run. So if you’ll excuse me…” Loki turns his back to him and starts to walk away.

“Wait!” Steve raises his voice. “Can I go with you?”

Loki stops and frowns at him.

“To what end? To see what kind of havoc I am trying to wreak upon this unsuspecting city?”

“No, I don’t really think – can’t I just keep you company?” Steve asks and makes an open gesture with his hands.

“I do not need anyone’s company, and least of all yours, Captain America,” comes a reply so sharp that it makes Steve wince.

“Captain America stays out of this. I’m talking to you as Steve Rogers now,” he says.

Loki crosses his arms over his chest and gives him a long, calculating look. They hear a laugh from some distant part of the corridor, the sound distorted as if underwater.

“Very well,” Loki finally acquiesces, “do as you please, Steve Rogers. It’s not as I can forbid you to walk next to me on a public street,” he says with a trace of bitterness and heads for the stairs, not waiting for Steve to follow him. Steve hurries up to catch up with him and they descend the stairs in silence.

Once outside, Loki takes a direction yet unknown to Steve and they pass a synagogue and an old Jewish cemetery with crooked tombstones. The street is almost empty. The only person they see is a waiter putting away wicker chairs, the last vestiges of summer. The wind has risen; it blows a bunch of fallen plane tree leaves across the street and ruffles Loki’s hair. Steve cannot look away from those black strands, dancing in the wind, which make him think of wild, untamed things. He wonders how they would feel in his hands. Loki is all but ignoring him, walking ahead in long, purposeful strides.  

They come into more bustling part of the town and reach a small square with a tall four-faced clock. There is a bank and a book store, but Loki walks past both of them and enters a small non-descript shop whose signboard doesn’t contain any words Steve knows. Steve doesn’t follow inside; that would be too much of an intrusion and might shatter this fragile truce between them. He looks around the square instead, noticing that two of the clock faces don’t show the same time, one ten minutes ahead of the other. Steve comes closer to see the two remaining faces; just as he suspected, they give yet different readings, one as far off as one hour in the past. He shakes his head at this oddity and muses if it’s neglect or a message of some kind, when he hears footsteps and turns from the misaligned clock.

Loki is standing there with a plastic bag and a neutral expression on his face.

“What did you buy?” Steve dares to ask.

“Pesticides,” Loki answers drily and Steve is at loss for a moment, before he remembers the moths crawling all over Loki’s apartment.

“That’s good,” he says and means it. Loki still does look kind of haggard, as he noticed before, but there is determination where before there was apathy, and Steve supposes that’s a good thing. For Loki, at least. As for the rest of the world – well, that is what Steve’s here to find out, isn’t he?

“I don’t need your approval,” Loki says and there is a hint of hostility that wasn’t there before. Steve has to think fast to save the situation. _Well, it’s now or never._

“I came back from Copenhagen yesterday, and I brought you something,” he says and puts his right hand into his pocket.

“You – you brought _me_ – why?” Loki’s eyes are wide now with incredulity and mistrust. There is also something vulnerable in there that makes Steve’s heart constrict in his chest, something that indicates it has been a very long time since anyone gave Loki a gift.  

“Just a thought,” Steve says with a shrug and hands Loki a small package.  

Loki takes it gingerly, as though it could shatter on the spot. Or explode. His shoulders relax a little when he sees what it is: a packet of Danish butter cookies.

“Is that a bribe? You are giving me sweets so I don’t try to take over the planet again?” Loki asks, but the hostility has disappeared and leaves his words sound almost teasing, and he is giving Steve a crooked smile that looks strangely disarming.

“I’m told they are great with coffee,” Steve says in a careful invitation and watches Loki with bated breath, his heart thudding in his ears because of the enormity of what he has just done.

Loki gives him an assessing look and finally nods.

“I know just the place,” he says, and Steve feels like he won a lottery.

 

* * *

 

The café’s soft light looks undoubtedly inviting in the falling dusk, but only when they enter and Steve is welcomed by a wave of warmth does he realize how cold it actually was outside.  

They choose a table facing the street and sit on black lacquered chairs with tall backs and forest green upholstery. Steve takes in the lush Art Nouveau décor with prevalent green and mustard yellow hues, completed with stained glass lanterns and inlaid wooden ceiling. Then he looks at Loki, seated gracefully with his legs crossed and sipping coffee from a china cup in his hand, and he feels a pang of envy, because Loki looks like he _belongs_ here, when he should anything but, while Steve has felt out of place almost constantly since he woke up from the ice, felt like he was only accepted because he was _useful._ But this feeling flees almost instantly and is replaced by a strong urge to captivate what he sees with his pencil. He stops his fingers from reaching for his sketchbook, but tries to commit this image of Loki to his memory.      

Loki puts down his cup and opens the packet of _brysselkex_ Steve has given him. He eats one – and Steve struggles to remember when – if ever – he saw an act of eating a cookie made look so dignified, and comes up empty handed.

“My mother used to bake them,” Loki says, not looking at Steve but instead eying his coffee.

Steve is surprised by this sudden proclamation, unsure of the best way to react.

“Did she really?” he says in the end, aiming to keep his voice neutral.  

Loki takes a sip of his coffee and then carefully places the cup back on the saucer, keeping his eyes fixed on its intricate golden pattern. For a long moment he stays quiet, twirling a spoon between his long fingers.

“No,” he says finally, “but Helga Lund did.”

 _He still remembers all about Eric Lund’s life_ , Steve thinks. Well, obviously – he wouldn’t be able to go on living in his place otherwise. _Is that what he wants, living the life of the man whose blood is on his hands?_

Steve feels his heart beat faster, as he imagines saying this aloud. He is sure Loki would leave if he did. He briefly considers asking about Loki’s _real_ mother, but decides against it as well. What little he knows about Loki’s family makes it seem like a dangerous topic.

“My mom always wanted to bake sweet pies,” he ventures instead, figuring that talking a little about himself couldn’t do much harm. “She had all these recipes cut out of women mags, for apple pies, raspberry pies, plum pies, you name it. But in the end, there was never enough money for her to buy the necessary ingredients, and we mostly survived on potatoes. Just like back home in Ireland, she’d say. She often told me that some of the poor people never ate anything but potatoes. Potato people, the authorities called them. It actually made me laugh as a child,” Steve admits little guiltily, and Loki looks at him strangely.  

“You are a peculiar person, Steve Rogers,” he says and although he is not smiling, something in his eyes looks almost like he is.  

Steve doesn’t know what to say to this, so he stays silent, sipping on his own beverage.

“Tell me,” Loki says deliberately, this time looking straight into Steve’s eyes, “what is it that you want from me?”

Steve swallows. _To ensure that you don’t start planning to take over the world again_ is the correct answer, that much is obvious to both of them. But Steve is reluctant to voice it. Because _Captain America stays_ _out of this_ , he said to Loki, and although he most definitely shouldn’t have, he meant it, and that was what _Captain America_ would say. As for _Steve Rogers_ – he was following his instincts, and those were telling him that attacking anyone wasn’t on Loki’s agenda. What _is_ on it, though, Steve still intends to find out.  

“I guess I just…want to get to know you better,” he says and when these words leave his mouth he realizes it’s the honest truth.

Loki gives him a smile that is half ironic and half bitter.

“Me? And who would that be?”

“That’s up to you,” Steve replies.

Loki’s expression after that is difficult to read, but Steve thinks that his smile loses some of its previous bitterness.

“So, how did you find Copenhagen?” Loki asks and just like that they are having a normal conversation two acquaintances might hold over coffee. Steve finds he rather enjoys it as they talk about traveling, art, music, food and other things. The conversation isn’t overly personal, but Steve still learns tidbits of information about Loki. He likes London but doesn’t like Paris (too many cars and noise that is hard to avoid), his favorite art style is Art Nouveau (Steve isn’t very surprised, with the choice of café), he enjoys classical music as well as alternative rock, and his favorite food is sushi.

These things sound strangely familiar; he realizes that they correspond with what he learned from Eric Lund’s file. Steve is not sure what to make of that.  

It is not until the darkness outside turns deeper and the clock in the middle of the square shows four much later times that either of them leaves, and not before Steve passes Loki a piece of paper with his number on it. Loki doesn’t say anything, but he takes the piece of paper, folds it carefully and slips it into his shirt pocket.

 

* * *

 

_Useless. Absolutely useless, every one of them._

The great hall with a vaulted ceiling is full of people, but hardly a sound can be heard. Rustling of pages, creaking of chairs. Occasionally a muted voice, but never for long. _Silentium,_ the sign next to the entrance says, because this is a place of learning.  

In the front of the hall, there is a majestic black tile stove, whose function is wholly ornamental today, and then there are endless rows of connected wooden tables with reading lamps and simple chairs. In the last row right next to one of the enormous alcove windows there is Loki, and a pile of heavy looking books lies in front of him.

He feels the urge to rest his head on the table in resignation, because none of these books hold the answers he seeks. All of them are _useless,_ just like he feels now. But he is convinced that none of the books he can find in this whole realm can help him, and doors to all the others are closed to him.

Loki raises his eyes from the books and looks outside the window, at the sky overcast with heavy clouds. There is one more thing he can try, but for that he needs snow. However, that is one test he would rather not pass.

Without his abilities, there is not really much he can do to make a difference. He has a human strength that is hardly enough to drag all these heavy tomes to the counter. He has a human mind that is filled with distorted thoughts and haunting images that make it difficult for him to sleep at night.    

He is also selfish, which is a quality humans share with many other beings. That is why, when he leaves the library and rides the number 18 tram, he takes out his cell phone and starts typing.  

 

* * *

  
  
On Friday evening the clouds outside promise rain. Steve is comfortably holed up in his hotel, drawing Loki holding a cup of coffee – it is an umpteenth time he tries this, because he still cannot capture the easy grace in Loki’s posture – when he is disturbed from his drawing by a text from an unknown number.

 _Sunday 20:00, Rudolfinum,_ is all it says.

The word “Rudolfinum” rings a bell; after probing his memory a little Steve recalls that it is the name of the gallery he visited shortly after he arrived, and that there is also a concert hall. Upon consulting the booklet of this month cultural events he finds out that on this Sunday the Czech Philharmonic is going to play some pieces by a composer called Leoš Janáček, whoever that is.

He doesn’t doubt who sent him the message. He has been hoping for something like this, but it still catches him unawares. Steve doesn’t understand Loki, cannot gauge his intentions. But he also doesn’t understand why he is playing along with this. All he knows is that he really, _really_ wants to go to this concert. _Even if the music is bad._

So on Sunday night Steve puts on the only suit he brought with himself and hasn’t worn yet, as the idea of visiting concerts and theaters alone didn’t appeal to him. For once he takes a taxi, because it is raining again and he doesn’t want the suit to get wet.

Loki is waiting for him next to the cloakroom and he makes a striking figure in his black three pieces suit with a green tie., It is so similar to what he wore in the Stuttgart opera house that it sends shivers down Steve’s spine. Not for the first time he is asking himself how it is possible that no one _recognizes_ Loki.  

They enter the majestic music halls adorned with antiquity style white columns and find their seats. While they wait for the orchestra to start, Loki asks if Steve knows the composer, and Steve admits to his ignorance.      

“Janáček is not as famous as he deserves to be,” Loki allows, “but those versed in fine music are familiar with him. We should fill these holes in your music education,” he says with a hint of a promise and Steve’s heart skips a beat.

The music starts, and it is nothing Steve ever thought he might like. It is aggressive, but not in the way some of the modern so-called music is, there is nothing vulgar about it, just incredibly forceful. The combinations of screeching high notes and low vibrating tones are often far from any concept of harmony Steve is familiar with, but instead of annoying he finds them strangely alluring. Sometimes, he discerns a melody so incredible gentle that it’s tugging at his heart as it finds its way through the chaos of the surrounding notes.

The Quartets are over and next comes the Sinfonietta. If before Steve was captivated, now he is overwhelmed from the first sounds of the brass ensemble. This is sheer triumph; this is homecoming from a long journey with pockets full of gold, this is running through green pastures spreading under mountains as fast as you can and drinking goat milk from a bucket, this is dancing in the starlight. This is the shock of finding himself holding Loki’s hand as though his life depended on it.

He looks at Loki’s pale fingers intertwined with his on the red plush of the armrest and thinks he should feel guilty for doing this, for betraying everything he stands for, but the only sensations he can feel are the music resonating through his whole being and the warmth of those fingers.

Steve lets go only when it is the time for applause.

 

* * *

  
  
When they exit the building, Loki lights a cigarette and moves to stand close to the entrance, watching the rest of the audience leave. Steve joins him there, standing side by side with the other man, not quite touching. He cannot stop thinking about the way Loki’s hand felt in his and feels a blush creeping to his cheeks. _How old am I, fifteen?_ He thinks self-deprecatingly, yet he can’t quite bring himself to look at Loki.    

“How did you like it?” Loki asks Steve in a neutral voice.

“It was… intense. Surprisingly so,” Steve replies, feeling foolish, but Loki seems pleased with this answer, because he gives a little nod and takes a drag of his cigarette.    

“Isn’t it? Especially when you take into consideration that all the compositions we heard today are the fruits of Janáček’s twilight years. He was in his seventies when he wrote them.”

“What made him write such passionate music?” Steve asks, even though he suspects he knows the answer. Or because of it.

“Love, my dear Captain. Isn’t it obvious?” Loki’s lips twist in a smile that can hardly be called happy, but it nevertheless does something to his features that makes Steve’s breath catch in his throat.

“He fell in love with a woman forty years his junior he met on a walk,” Loki continues matter-of-factly. “She was beautiful but uneducated; I read somewhere that she couldn’t even spell ‘piano’ correctly. She didn’t love him back,” he finishes and drops the cigarette on the ground, crushing it under his shoe.

Suddenly Loki tears himself from the wall and leans in, trapping Steve between his hands, leaving just a few inches of space between them. Steve instinctively backs and bumps into the wall, but he doesn’t try to break free. Loki’s eyes glimmer with something wild. Steve swallows, and then closes his eyes. His world becomes the sensation of the wall underneath his back still vibrating with music, the smell of rain, gasoline and the lingering tobacco. Then there is a feeling of warm breath grazing his cheek. The body closing in on him is radiating heat which is now also seeping into his own limbs, and he finds himself wishing for more of it, for breath to become a real touch, and he is no longer backing into the wall, but leaning forward.

Then this world is shattered with a sound of a woman’s voice.

 

* * *

 

 _So it’s really him_ , Anna Hoeg thinks as the man turns to her and she recognizes Eric. She had a feeling she caught a glimpse of him earlier, but dismissed it as unlikely – Eric was hardly able to get to work these days, let alone to seek entertainment. Obviously she was wrong, which is a good thing; God knows that Eric needed a little bit of fun in his life.

With a couple of words of greetings for her, Eric steps aside and Anna is in for a surprise. Behind Eric, there is another figure, a tall, well-build and rather handsome fair-haired man. Slightly familiar, too. Anna runs a quick scan through her memory and comes with the right face and name; or rather, nickname. She doesn’t remember his real name.

Loki refreshes her memory the next instant, when he says politely:

“Anna, allow me to present you Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America. Steve, this is Professor Anna Hoeg, the head of my department.”

Anna watches as comprehension dawns on Steve Rogers’ face. Eric must have told him about her.

“How do you do,” Rogers says with a seemingly friendly smile, but something in his voice belies the sentiment. Anna suddenly realizes how close to each other the two men must have been standing before she called out to Eric. _Have I interrupted something?_ She muses, slightly mortified. _How do they even_ know _each other?_

Loki seems to read her thoughts, because he says smoothly:

“Steve is very interested in Norse mythology.”

 _Of course he is,_ Anna thinks. “Eric’s lectures are very popular. He is such a talented speaker,” she says with an easy smile.

“Yes, he is,” Steve Rogers replies with a smile of his own, and this time with uttermost sincerity.  

 _Interesting. Could it be…_ Anna turns to Eric, struck with a sudden inspiration.

“About next weekend – have you decided how you’re going to get there? We’ll be leaving Prague at about four on Friday afternoon.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather take the train and come by myself on Saturday morning. It’s been a while since I had the chance to travel,” Eric says, with an apologetic smile.

“Excellent,” Anna claps her hands a little, noticing that a puzzled expression has appeared on Steve Rogers’ face. _So Eric apparently hasn’t told him about this. This wouldn’t do at all!_

“Eric has been so kind as to agree to help me and my family with some apple picking next weekend. I… it may seem rather preposterous of me, but would you like to join us? You see, when I invited Eric, I didn’t realize he was, seeing someone?,” she finishes delicately and watches the two men exchange startled glances. _No labels yet, not even that vague._

“If you’re not planning to return to the States before we go,” she adds, when Steve Rogers doesn’t react at first, but just stares at her with incomprehension.

“Of course I’d like to help,” he says when he recovers his wits, and sends a quick look Eric’s way.

Eric seems surprised, but gives Rogers a small nod and a hesitant smile. At the sight of this, Anna is overwhelmed by a surge of affection for Eric and she reaches out to touch his arm, leaning close to him so she can speak to him in private.

“You don’t know how happy I am you’re letting yourself live a little. Magdalena would have wanted that,” she whispers with an encouraging smile, and then takes her leave.  

 

* * *

 

 _Magdalena would have wanted that._ This innocuous phrase makes Loki choke with self-hatred. _Who could now decide what she would have wanted? She is not here to tell us anything, and that’s purely my fault._

Steve Rogers is staring at him with a slight worry and Loki cannot bear this. Why is he worried about someone like Loki? And why didn’t he do his duty in the first place, and hand him to S.H.I.E.L.D.?

When he reaches his hand to touch Loki’s wrist, Loki recoils as if burned.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. Then he just turns and runs, bumping into people with umbrellas, narrowly avoiding cars. Uncaring about the chilly rain whipping his back or muddy water splashing in his dress shoes.  

 

* * *

 

One thing Steve doesn’t like about the modern times is headphones. Or rather, when people around him are wearing them. In his early days after waking up from the ice he went wandering through New York and reacquainting himself with the city. He often tried to ask people for directions to one place or another, but most of them seemed to ignore him. He thought they were all foreigners at first – rather rude, admittedly – but then he started to notice the little buds in their ears. He stepped in front of a young man who originally didn’t show any reaction when Steve asked him if he knew the way to St. Thomas Church, and waved his hand in his face.

The young man removed a bright green buds from his ear – Steve noticed that a thin wire was going down from it, disappearing inside behind the collar of the man’s silver stud adorned leather jacket – and looked at Steve.

“Sorry, pal? Did you say somethin’?” he asked with a thick Southern accent. Steve repeated his question and the man gave him detailed but easy-to-follow directions to the church. His eyes followed the man as he went away with a sway in his steps, until his punk haircut disappeared in the crowd, and thought that the youth didn’t really look like a church-going type. But appearances could be deceiving; he of all people should know that.    

Later, Tony explained to him all about iPods, mp3s and suchlike; it was somewhat complicated because Tony dwelled unnecessarily on the technology behind it, but in the end Steve got the gist of it.

One day Pepper gave him a ride in her car while listening to a lesson of basic French. Some people used the headphones for learning things like that. There were now audio books, and not just for the blind. But music appeared to be the most popular choice. To Steve, people with headphones on seemed to isolate themselves from the place they were currently occupying, and they were instead visiting a different world, into which no one else was permitted. Sometimes, when their music was too loudhe could hear noises or even melodies, but hopelessly distorted and mangled, unpleasant to listen to.

The sounds that are attacking him from the headphones of the obese young woman on the seat next to him remind him of nails scraping glass. He is leaning as close to the window as he can, but he still hears them.

_Scratch. Scratch._

Steve winces.

Two of other three people in the compartment wear headphones as well, though theirs thankfully don’t let any sounds bleed through. The third person, who is sitting in the seat opposite Steve and silently staring at the purple clouds outside the window, is Loki.

This morning, they met at a tram stop at the Henry Tower and walked to the main train station from there. It was nearing seven o’clock; the silhouettes of trees were black and shimmering against a sky painted red and purple by the rising sun. They mounted their North-bound train in a hangar-shaped hall, a metal construction paneled with glass. Here they are now, seated across one another as the train speeds its way through unknown landscape. Neither of them feels a desire to speak in front of strangers, so they both indulge in silent observation of the changes the landscape undergoes.      

The hills are getting steeper, with scattered flocks of sheep grazing on them. Roofs of the houses are getting steeper too, so that they are not crushed by heavy, long-lingering snow throughout winter. They pass forests of deciduous trees clad in autumn colors and as the train climbs higher up, also spruces and pines. Now and then there are piles of timber lying near the railways.

Loki’s face is reflected on the window glass, so Steve can study it to his heart’s content under the pretext of just looking outside. His expression is serene, green eyes contemplative. Maybe a little wistful.  

After Loki all but ran away after the concert, Steve didn’t know what to do. Whatever that woman – professor Hoeg – said must have hurt him deeply, because the expression he wore reminded Steve of that he saw on his face at the cemetery. _Grief and guilt._ Steve is no stranger to these two emotions. Sometimes, he still dreams about Bucky’s fall from that train.

Yet now here they are – on another train that might take them away from their respective grieves and guilts.

 _“Does the invitation still stand?”_ Steve asked Loki after his Wednesday lecture, after there had been no messages and Loki hadn’t been answering any of his calls. “ _Surely Captain America must have better things to do with his time than pick apples for the elderly?”_ Loki said flippantly, not meeting Steve’s eyes. “ _Captain America might have, but Steve Rogers does not,”_ Steve answered impatiently, wishing that Loki would realize the difference. _“If you insist… Steve,”_ Loki said finally, and Steve felt like he had won another battle.

 

* * *

 

After a while, the train stops in what appears to be quite a busy station, probably the major one in the area, indicated by all of their fellow passengers in the compartment getting off. Steve watches the train dispatcher in dark blue uniform and red cap on her blond curls give a wave with her baton and feels the train start to move again.  

The ride has suddenly become almost unbearably intimate with just the two of them seating across each other in the narrow compartment, their knees almost touching. Furthermore, Loki is no longer looking out of the window; he is now turning his full attention to Steve. Steve remembers how Loki backed him into a wall on Sunday night, how hot he felt despite the autumn chill. How he longed for _more_ , and a blush starts to creep upon his face.

Loki raises an inquiring eyebrow at him, a small smirk playing upon his lips. _God but this is humiliating,_ Steve thinks as his blush deepens.

“Are you hungry? I’m actually beginning to be,” he says in an attempt to make the situation less awkward – an attempt that proves completely futile as Loki’s smirk grows wicked.

“We cannot have that. I should see to it that you are… _sated_ ,” Loki purrs and Steve wishes the ground would open and swallow him whole. He’s never been good with innuendo. _Do you fondue, indeed._ Loki gives out a low chuckle at his discomfort and Steve realizes it is the first time he hears him laugh in, well, non-maniacal way. Then Loki takes pity on Steve and says, not unkindly,

“I take it that you brought us some refreshments for this journey?”

Steve just nods with relief, and takes out two boxes with sushi, handing Loki one.

“How thoughtful of you,” Loki says.

“Well, you said you liked it, and I’ve never tried any, so…” Steve mumbles as he opens his box and splits a pair of chopsticks – to two glaringly uneven pieces. He tries to copy the way Loki holds them and fails miserably. He ends up just scooping them in his fist and using them as a makeshift shovel. Watching Loki eat his sushi with dexterity and grace – not like he expected anything else from him really – makes his own fumbling attempts seem even more embarrassing.

“You’re hopeless at this. Here, let me,” Loki says and reaches his hand to correct Steve’s hold on the chopsticks. His fingers are cool on Steve’s that burn just like his cheeks, long after Loki has withdrawn his hand.

They talk a little about the individual flavors – Steve admits that raw fish is better than he thought it would, but fish eggs are just weird – but mostly they just focus on their food, their gaze sometimes meeting over it. Steve thinks that Loki’s eyes are impossibly beautiful, although he would never voice such a thought aloud.

They pass more stations where the train fills with tourists clad in water-proof jackets and sturdy boots, and families with children playing card games, drinking tea from thermal flasks. Steve turns his gaze outside and notices a man and a woman standing on a wood path going under the railway bridge, looking up and shading their eyes against the bright sun, so they can watch the passing train. Then he turns back to Loki, who has finished the last of his sushi and is now meticulously wiping his hands with a tissue.

There are flickers of golden light in Loki’s eyes when they once again lock with Steve’s, and he is sure that no paints of this world would do this sight justice. _This_ , he suddenly realizes, _must be what happiness feels like._

 

* * *

 

They exit the train and Steve looks around. Only a handful of people got off at this station and no one climbed aboard. They don’t see much of the place as they silently make their way to the underpass, but it looks pretty deserted to him, with blackened wooden benches and weeds sprouting between the railway tracks. The underpass is dark, but Steve can see the spray paintings on the walls and cigarette buds swimming in the water pooling on the concrete floor, and he is relieved when they come into the sun again.    

The red brick building they pass is way too big for the station, Steve thinks. Some of the windows have cardboard over them and some not even that, black holes gaping into the lightness of the day.

“What could they need such a big building for?” he breaks the silence. “Stores, maybe?”

Loki eyes the building thoughtfully.

“I don’t think so. Probably employees’ lodgings, they used to do that,” he says.

Steve sends another look to the pair of small second story windows overlooking the railway and then gives Loki a sideway glance, wondering how he knows. If the other man notices his look, he doesn’t give it away.

As they walk around the building, there’s a little buffet open, but a cursory glance inside discourages them from visiting this establishment. The only customers are a couple of men standing around one of the plastic tables with shot glasses in front of them, staring at the small TV hung in the corner of the room. It is playing some children show.

One of them turns around and his bloodshot and lifeless eyes give Steve an apathetic look that makes him shudder. He still remembers poverty and the despair that comes with it, the helplessness that made people turn to bottle and then into animals ( _please Gino don’t- please just don’t, at least not in front of the kids, I beg you,_ oh how he was lucky his own father wasn’t like that, but the Stefani family next door wasn’t quite so lucky, and the things he sometimes _heard_ when his mother wasn’t there to cover his ears were enough to give him nightmares).

He startles at the touch on his elbow, feather light yet burning to the core.

“Let’s wait over there, shall we?” Loki says lightly, pointing at a weathered but sturdy bench in a sunlit spot some distance from the bar.

The promise of the brilliant sunrise has been fulfilled in a splendid day. The sky is blue with a slightly violet tint and sunlight filters through the red and yellow leaves of the row of elm trees in front of them. The air is fresh and crisp and smells of earth.  

Loki lights a cigarette and takes a slow drag. He throws his head back and spread his legs as he exhales, his posture completely relaxed. To his surprise, Steve finds that the smell of tobacco is not unpleasant to him. Far from it, together with the sight of Loki enjoying himself it makes him extend his hand with a silent request. Loki complies with a barest hint of a smile and Steve takes a slow drag before giving the cigarette back.  

He smiles when he imagines Tony’s face if he could see him now – _Captain goody-two-shoes playing at a bad boy, seriously_ – but his smile abruptly fades because he realizes who exactly is he doing it with. _The villain who tried to take over the whole world._ He’s been so wrapped in this – this _thing_ with Loki, whatever this is, that he barely spared the Avengers a single thought. Keeping an eye on Loki, seeing what he’s up to – even though he has yet to ask a _single stupid question in that direction,_ evaluating whether he poses a threat – all of those were excuses so weak he is surprised his mind even bothers to conjure them up.

The truth is, for the first time in his adult life, he is being truly selfish, and he is just doing what he wants, without any regard to anyone else. The only reason he isn’t panicking – _freaking out, Tony would say –_ about this is his gut feeling, which tells him he is doing the right thing. That what he’s doing isn’t putting anyone in danger. _Except maybe himself._

Steve hears the door creak behind them and in the next moment they face one of the men from the buffet, who stops in front of their bench. He asks something Steve doesn’t understand, but the nature of his request becomes clear when Loki offers the man his cigarettes and he takes one, going away with thanks. The look in Loki’s eyes as he watches the retreating figure is hard to place; part of it might be disdain, but it is mixed with some other, complex emotion Steve doesn’t recognize.

His reflection is disturbed by a honking sound. It is Professor Hoeg who has come for them in a silver sedan.

“A slightly less glamorous part of the country, isn’t it?” the professor says as she drives them from the station.

Steve wants to disagree out of politeness, but doesn’t want to lie; in the end, he stays silent.

The houses here have different shapes than those Steve has seen so far; their angles are sharper and their fronts look somewhat menacing. Many of them are adorned with intricate flowery ornaments and writings in a strange curly script ( _something German,_ an unpleasant memory whispers to him), which sharply contrast with the state of ruin they often are in, their plaster chipped, window panes broken, fences rusted and gardens overgrown with weeds. In some places there are nettles taller than Steve is.

People here seem to be constantly fighting with nature to keep the chaos at bay, and it is not a fight to be won easily.

They are going along a river now. On the other bank, Steve sees a strange construction: it is a low and long building made of dark wood, with both of its long side walls full of long white framed windows. It seems completely empty.    

“What was that?” Steve asks.

“It used to be a dancing hall. It was a part of the spa, but the spa went bankrupt a couple of years ago. Another hundred jobs gone,” Anna Hoeg sighs.

Steve realizes that even after seventy years unemployment is still an issue. _Why is it that bad things never go away and the good things never last,_ a thought flickers in his mind he would never say aloud, so conflicting it was with the positive image of Captain America. The role-model superhero who had overcome everything couldn’t have negative ideas, could he?

The house they finally arrive at is an unremarkable building maybe fifty years old covered with grey cement plaster containing particles of something that glitters in the sun, but does little to lend it any glamor.  

The garden, however, is something else. It is a big lot, but there is hardly a free piece of lawn because the entire garden is filled with apple trees. Almost all of these trees are sagging with ripe fruit.  

“We’ve started already, but haven’t got too far with just the three of us,” Anna says. “Me and Neils, well, we’re not as young as we used to be, and Kirsten cannot handle all of this.”

As she shows them around the garden, Anna proceeds to explain about the individual breeds, their names, taste, storage period, sugar content. Steve likes the sound of some of those names – _Star Crimson and Jonathan and Golden Reinette_ – but the rest of the information goes right over his head, and it must show, because Anna suddenly stops to exclaim:

“Oh goodness, I must be boring you with all of this! Have you even eaten?” she asks worriedly, but Loki assures her that they have and that she can continue.

“But maybe you can move to the part where you explain what we do,” he says with a smirk.

“That’s simple,” Anna smiles at them, “we’ve put some crates over there, and I show you where the ladders are. Then you just try to pick as many apples as you can.”    

“What do you do with all of these, sell them?” Steve asks, because he cannot imagine three people eating so many apples in a course of the few months the fruits can last in storage.

Anna laughs.

“Oh no. Eric didn’t tell you? Come on, I’ll show you,” she says with an inviting gesture and they follow her to the house. As soon as they enter the hall, they are assaulted with a strong smell of fermented apples, and Steve starts to get some idea about the way all those apples are processed. This is confirmed when they reach the spacious, country-style kitchen and see wooden barrels waiting to be filled. Two people are sitting at the rough wooden table and quartering apples. One is an elderly man with a wide, honest face who Anna introduces as her husband Niels, and the other one a young woman with dark hair pulled up into a ponytail, who has Anna’s lively grey eyes and quick mouth – her daughter Kirsten, who gives Steve a wide-eyed stare.

“I still cannot believe that _Captain America_ is going to pick apples for us!” she exclaims in lieu of a greeting. Anna hisses something in a language Steve doesn’t understand – Norwegian, perhaps – that makes Kirsten look properly chastened.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m Kirsten, nice to meet you,” she says and Steve shakes her soft, feminine hand.

“Steve Rogers, and that’s fine, I understand your surprise. But I’d like to see your face if it was Thor,” he attempts to joke and Kirsten laughs in relief. From a corner of his eye, Steve sees Loki’s expression freeze and he immediately regrets mentioning his brother.

“How about you show us where the ladders are, so we can start right away?” he hurries to ask Anna with a smile he can himself feel to be strained. Anna doesn’t seem to notice, as she gives an enthusiastic nod and leads them out again, this time to a shed for garden supplies.

 

* * *

 

It has been decided that Loki probably weights less so it is he who goes up the ladder, and hands the picked fruits to Steve, who in turn puts them into crates. When a crate is full, Steve lifts it and takes it to the house. They have been at this for some time now, working methodically and in a perfect synchronization that fills Steve’s heart with content. When they move to yet another apple tree – a _Golden Reinette_ , if Steve remembers it correctly – and Loki climbs up the ladder while Steve holds it to secure him, a black cat comes rubbing at Steve’s calves.

“Hey there… do you know his name?” Steve asks Loki as he bends to scratch the cat behind its ears.

“It’s Rachmaninoff,” Loki answers, handing Steve another handful of apples.

At the look of incomprehension on Steve’s face Loki lets out a heartfelt sight.

“Your music education really is nonexistent, isn’t it?” he says scathingly. “Rachmaninoff was a late-romantic Russian composer. Anna is quite fond of him, but she often complains that his piano compositions are almost impossible to play, because they are designed for someone with bigger hands. Well, it is no wonder considering his height – it is said that Rachmaninoff was 198 centimeters tall.”

Steve whistles.

“That’s one tall fellow. Taller than either one of us,” he says. Loki doesn’t comment on this and the next moment is spent in silence, which is broken only by the rustling of branches as they work.

“I’ve been always more interested in graphic arts. If the cat’s name was Rubens or Rembrandt, I wouldn’t be quite so lost,” Steve says some time later, wishing not to come across as ignorant.

“That’s understandable, as you are an artist yourself,” Loki says generously. “Speaking of which,I realize I didn’t compliment on your art before. I was too… overwhelmed at the time.”

“I know,” Steve nods and takes more fruits from Loki, their fingers brushing a little in the process.

 

* * *

 

They have one last tree left when the twilight starts to fall, and they are not yet halfway done when it gets really dark.

“Come on, you two! You cannot see anything in there!” they hear Anna’s voice calling up to them. As Steve descends the ladder, he smells smoke and soon he sees that there is a fire at the front of the garden.

Together they head towards it. Kristen is there, warming her hands from the big fire whose brilliant flames lash against the last vestiges of light blue in the sky, splattered with fast moving dark grey clouds. When they come closer, they can see what it is that the fire is burning.

“Is that…is that a piano?” Loki asks with a touch of disbelief in his voice.

“Not exactly,” Kristen supplies the answer, “it was a reed organ.”

“What’s that?” asks Steve.

“It sounds just like normal organ, but it doesn’t have pipes. It is portable, though, more practical.”

“So why burn it?” this time it is Loki who asks.

“It got damaged beyond repair. It was already bad off when we put it into the garage, and after a few years there, the dampness took care of the rest. It does make a nice fire, though,” she says with satisfaction and Steve cannot help but agree as they watch the dancing flames, and dark smoke rising to the sky is full of notes, Loki standing so close to him that their elbows are almost touching.

Afterwards, when the fire is nothing but embers, they go inside and sit around the big kitchen table. Niels serves them dinner, some kind of thick soup with beet and potatoes. “You’ve done a lot of work today, eat up,” he urges them, and Steve finds that he is indeed famished and gobbles down three bowls of the soup, which is simple but tasty.  

After the dinner, Niels opens a bottle of clear liquid and pours it into shot glasses.  

“Alcohol doesn’t do much for me,” Steve feels obliged to say, but Niels just laughs.

“All the better for you – you can truly appreciate the taste,” he replies as he pours Steve a good measure.

They toast to good harvest and down their glasses in one go. The drink leaves a slight burning sensation in Steve’s throat, but the taste is nice enough and he doesn’t hesitate to tell this to the Hoeg couple, who seem flattered.

Niels proposes another one and no one is protesting; before the night is over, the bottle is empty. The Hoeg family manages to hold most of the conversation with miscellaneous stories about their relatives, neighbors and friends. Kirsten has just told them about a boy from a nearby village, who decided to make use of the abundant yield of fruit to make dried apple strips and sell them over the internet. They are discussing if such an activity is good for the child, who will thus learn the value of money, or bad, making him a peon of capitalism at the tender age of ten. Steve is saved from the necessity of picking sides in this debate by a look at Loki, who has been very quiet for some time. Now Steve sees why – his eyes are closed and his head is almost falling on Steve’s shoulder.

“I think we will call it a night,” Steve says and Anna gives them an indulgent smile.

“Of course. We’ve prepared you the room facing the top of the stairs. Your things are already there.”

Steve thanks her and gently rouses Loki. The other man blinks owlishly for a moment, before he remembers where he is. _Just how many shots did he have?_ Steve thinks. It must have been quite a few, because he lets himself by led up the stairs meekly like a child, until they reach the door to their room and he suddenly stops. Before Steve has the time to ask what is the matter, Loki turns to him with the most unguarded expression Steve has ever seen on his face.

“You’re a good man, Steve,” Loki says with the utmost sincerity of children and the drunk.

“I do what I can,” Steve replies, his throat suddenly feeling dry.

Loki’s stare turns half-lidded.

“Do you want me?” he whispers.

 _By God, I shouldn’t,_ Steve thinks as his lips whisper “yes” at the same time. They enter the room, not bothering to turn on the light, as there is enough of it coming from a streetlamp outside the house to make out each other’s faces.

They begin to kiss in this semi-darkness and Loki’s lips taste like apples and smoke. His hands seem to be everywhere: in Steve’s hair, pulling him closer, sliding down his shoulders and arms, on his hips. When Steve stops for a moment just to breathe, Loki makes a desperate sound and presses even closer, as if kissing Steve could save his life. Somewhere in Steve’s brain there is an alarm going off, telling him that this is yet another broken rule, a double betrayal, because this time he is not just betraying the Avengers by being with Loki, but also betraying _Loki_ by taking advantage of him, but he doesn’t want to stop, he cannot, not now, so he doesn’t, not even when Loki falls back on the bed and drags Steve down with him.

They become still for a moment, Steve supporting himself with one hand while towering over Loki, and caressing his face with the fingers of his other hand. Loki’s eyes glitter in the dark, when he speaks up quietly:

“This is so much, I’ve never thought – it never used to be like this. So much… of everything.”

“What it used to be like?” Steve asks and starts to place kisses on Loki’s throat and shoulder.

“I don’t really – it’s all blurred now. Faded. It’s hard to remember when…when you do this,” Loki tells Steve breathlessly, and Steve pulls away a little to look at him.

“No, don’t stop. I didn’t want you to stop,” Loki says and draws Steve closer to him, so that they are lying on top of each other, with Steve’s face buried at the crook at Loki’s neck. For a while, they just breathe.

“You know, sometimes I lie wide awake at night, just listening to the sound of my blood rushing through my ears. Every time I notice that sound, I cannot stop paying attention to it. I can’t think about anything else but that sound. It’s like a… like a flood of dark water, clashing against my mind,” Loki says in a small voice.  

Steve can think of no words to say to this, so he just kisses Loki’s earlobe, gently teasing it with his tongue. Loki shudders.

“There is another thing. I hate the idea of a heart pumping blood to the body. I feel like if I concentrate on it for long enough, it will stop,” he whispers.

Steve spreads his palm over Loki’s heart and kisses him, hard. His fingers find Loki’s nipple and play with it, until the other man’s breathing becomes labored.

“I dislike how I….can’t control…. this body….” he rasps out between breaths, and Steve’s hand slides down between his legs. When Steve takes him in hand and starts stroking, Loki doesn’t say anything for a long time. The only sounds in the room are their ragged breathing and smacking and sucking of lips and tongues. Loki touches Steve in return and it is so different from the times he tried to do it himself, it doesn’t really compare. Their thrusts become more and more frenzied as they are getting closer to completion.

“Say my name,” is the last thing Loki whispers, but at that moment Steve is already so far gone that words are not even an option, so he just places butterfly kisses on Loki’s forehead, cheeks and eyelids, until his orgasm overtakes him.

 

* * *

 

When Steve wakes up in the morning, he immediately notices two things. The first one is that although it is still only October, snow fell overnight and covered the garden. The second and far more important one is that Loki is nowhere to be seen.  

He fetches his jacket and shoes and hurries outside. The garden looks ethereal, with trees that have hardly begun to shed their leaves now covered with snow, the red and orange hues bleeding through. There is a single set of footprints in the snow. Steve is gripped by fear when he realizes that the feet that made them must have been bare.

The crunching of snow and dried leaves under his feet is loud in the morning quiet as he runs ahead, until he finds Loki.  

Loki is sitting under the tree they didn’t finish yesterday, so some of its purple-colored apples are still hanging on the branches with snowy cups on them. He is wearing nothing but a shirt and pair of jeans and his feet are indeed bare. All of the skin Steve can see is deep blue. Before Steve knows it, he is sinking to the ground next to Loki and shaking him by shoulders.

“What do you think you’re doing? You’re going to catch pneumonia from being here like this!”

“Are you not repulsed? Deceived? Enraged?” Loki intones without meeting his eyes.

“I repeat, what the hell are you doing out here?”

“I came here to test a theory,” Loki says cryptically, looking up to him. His eyes are blood red.

“What are you – never mind, let’s get you inside first,” Steve says and tries to lift Loki by his forearms. But even Steve’s extraordinary strength is not enough to move the other man when he obviously doesn’t want to.

“To think that of all my powers, I’ve retained the one I never wanted in the first place. A great cosmic joke. Or just my father’s”, Loki says in a hollow voice, “to think that it was only because of my supposed humanity – humanity that was just as deceitful as everything else about me – that you took pity on me last night…”

“Pity on you – what are you on about, Loki?” Steve demands with a mix of panic and anger in his voice.

“So you _do_ realize who I am after all…” Loki’s lips curl in a parody of a smile.

“Of course I- I just… Let’s go inside. You might be all comfortable in this cold, but I’m freezing here. _Please_.”

Loki doesn’t say anything for a long while. Steve’s breath is coming in white puffs and he is losing the feeling in his fingers.

“I don’t wish to… to take Eric from Anna again. She loves him like a mother would a son,” Loki whispers.

Steve swallows.

“Can’t you change back, then?” he says, hoping that Loki will not misunderstand this request for something it isn’t.

Loki just shakes his head.

“My temperature is too low for that now.”

Steve doesn’t take a moment to think. By pure instinct, he lunges forward and envelops Loki in a crushing embrace.

“Are you trying to kill yourself, you idiot?” Loki hisses and struggles to break free. But Steve doesn’t let go, not when his skin starts to burn even under two layers of clothing, and not even when the burn gives away to numbness. Finally the skin of the man in his arms changes from blue to white, albeit with a slight bluish tinge, and the eyes that watch him with startling intensity are green again.

Loki uses the moment when Steve’s arms go slack from a shock of this sudden transformation to break away from Steve’s grip, and starts to walk shakily in the direction of the house.    

“No way I’m letting you _walk in the snow barefoot again_ ,” Steve growls and sweeps Loki up into his arms, this time holding him bridal style.

“You of all people should know that I am far from fragile,” Loki scolds him, but lets himself be carried without further struggle. The transformation has obviously exhausted him, because they are not even halfway to the house when he closes his eyes and a moment later goes limp in Steve’s arms.

 

* * *

 

“Loki,” Steve says gently.

The man in question forces his eyelids open and his eyes focus on him blearily for a moment. Recognition flashes in green orbs and he tries to draw himself to sitting position, but succeeds only in rising a few inches before he falls back on the bed, shaking.

Steve reaches a hand to touch his forehead, pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes.

“Shh. Don’t move yet. I think you’ve overtaxed yourself with…well…”

“Becoming a blue monster?” Loki suggests drily.

“No! I mean yes, by doing that, but you’re not a monster.”

Loki gives him an unblinking stare.

“Can you really say that with a clear conscience?” he asks.

“Yes,” Steve retorts firmly.

 _Maybe a couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t, but now, I can._ Whatever happened to Loki has changed him for better. He has been trying to mend, that much is obvious. And slipping into his frost giant form hasn’t changed anything about that. It has also done no good to Loki, who is now pulling the blanket closer to his body to stop himself from shivering.

“I am not Eric Lund,” Loki says suddenly. “I tried to be him, but as you can see, it is impossible. Certain matters are simply out my control.”

Steve stares at him in amazement. _So you do realize who I am after all._

“You mean that you thought-“

“In that café, you gave me a choice and I made it,” Loki interrupts him. “You said, if you need to be reminded, that my identity is “up to me”. So I chose to become Eric. And all your further actions proved to me that this choice was the right one. That this was what you wanted from me.”

Steve cannot find any words to this. Loki continues:

“And you didn’t… you would not say my name. Not even when we…” Loki doesn’t finish his sentence, averting his gaze in an unfamiliarly shy manner.

 _Say my name,_ the echo of Loki’s voice resonates in his head and Steve berates himself for being an idiot.

“I…really made a mess of things, didn’t I?” he says sheepishly.

Loki gives him a feeble smile.

“I think I might be the last one entitled to judge you for that.”

Steve returns the smile and reaches out to take hold of one of Loki’s still ice-cold hands, warming it by rubbing it between his palms.

“Just for the record – I meant that I wanted to get to know the real you, not that you must become someone else.”

Loki’s fingers lace with his.

“I am Steve Rogers, nice to meet you,” Steve says, “and who are you?”

Loki’s fingers strengthen their grip, as he answers:

“I am Loki of Asgard, formerly of Jotunheim. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Outside, the sun flickers off the crystals of October snow with blinding brilliance.

 

**THE END**

 


End file.
